


you remember it (all too well)

by Anonymous



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Song: All Too Well (Taylor Swift), Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-01 21:44:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17875400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Wind in my hair, you were there, you remember it all.Down the stairs, you were there, you remember it all.It was rare, I was there, I remember it all too well.





	you remember it (all too well)

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of the song All Too Well by Taylor Swift.

The scarf is black. That’s what he knows. Actually, it’s black and white and grey, checkered all levels of the three colours, different pigmentations colouring the soft, fuzzy material. It’s big, too big, in fact. He remembers it swallowing her whole, her tiny chin tucked into the material that ran the length of her entire torso. He also remembers touching it, grabbing onto the ends and using them to pull her close. He remembers a lot about her. Everything about her, if he’s honest.

“Hey, Scott,” Cara told him one night, about two weeks after he lost the one real thing he’s ever known. And there, in her hands, was the damn scarf. He wondered if it still smelled like her (it did). “I, uhm-” She offered the scarf to him like it would mend all the broken pieces of himself (it didn’t). “I found this in my house.”

He took the material from her, held it in his hands and let the weight of it fill his palms. It’s like he could feel her again, warm in his hands, soft, comforting. It was cold, probably because Cara left it in her car while they had dinner with the family (a Sunday evening tradition that  _ she  _ attended more than once). But nonetheless, it felt like home. Too bad he tore down his home, like a bulldozer on a mission, ready to landscape an entirely new property. It’s still empty, is the thing. The plot of land is bare and frozen and the ground is too rough for anything new to build atop. 

“Thanks,” he mumbled, holding the scarf close to his heart like maybe it would wrap itself around the organ and hold it together. 

She just gave him a pitiful smile (he didn’t deserve her pity, he never did anything right to be pitied for) and nodded her head once before entering the front seat of her car, turning on the ignition and driving off. 

That same scarf is buried deep in his closet, preserved in a Ziploc bag so that it doesn’t lose the smell of her (he’s not crazy, he  _ isn’t,  _ okay). Sometimes, when he hates himself, he’ll pull it out and stare at it. The crinkling of the bag wrinkles under his hands and he can almost hear the sound of her laughing against his mouth. 

❁

He meets her on the cusp of summer turning into fall. There’s a slight bite to the air, not enough that he has to wear a full on jacket, but the kind that would nip at any bare skin. Long sleeves it is.

Scott doesn’t particularly like coffee. He doesn’t like the bitter taste or the expense or the fact that it’s something he could become addicted to. Addictions are no joke. Along the expanse of the Moir bloodline, he knows many distant cousins who’ve had addictions. Alcohol, drugs, caffeine, sex. He doesn’t want to expose himself to the possibility.

Too bad he does so the second that he sees her eyes.

(“I think I’m addicted to you,” he mutters, five months later, against the skin of her neck.

She just giggles and tugs at the hair on the back of his head. “Hi, my name is Scott Moir, and I’m addicted to Tessa Virtue.”

“Number of days clean…” He nips her neck. She inhales sharply. “Zero.”

Her hips buck up against his own and he has to grip the pillow beside her head instead of her waist because he might hurt her, if so. “Are you mad about it?” she asks him, eyes sparkling up at him and bottom lip caught between her teeth. She looks like a combination of everything bad for him.

“No,” he says. Then he leans in and kisses her mouth. And then, he overdoses on her.)

Scott doesn’t particularly like coffee, but he feels like he needs  _ something  _ at this very moment. He stayed up all night trying to wrack together the numbers for the shop, tallying number of skates sold and calculating profits. He thinks he can still see the black numbers on the computer screen dancing behind his eyelids. 

It’s more than convenient that there is a cafe right next door.

He’s exhausted, gripping a large black coffee (go big or go home) in his hand, so he doesn’t see her. Which is exactly how he bumps into her, spilling said coffee all over the both of them.

“Shit!” he gasps out, hands scrambling to do  _ something  _ to help. “I’m the absolute worst, fuck, I’m so sorry!”

He doesn’t really know exactly what to do. Then he looks up and is swallowed by a sea of green and  _ definitely  _ doesn’t know what to do. There are very few times when he’s been rendered speechless in his life. When the Leafs lost in overtime the season he thought for sure they were in the running for the cup. The summer that Danny got married on a whim. Last April when his uncle asked if Scott wanted to open a skate shop together. This, this moment looking into the abyss of her eyes, is quickly added to the list.

Hands grab his shoulders and he thinks he starts shaking under their touch. He can’t really tell. His mind is a little preoccupied. “Hey,” a voice rings like a little bell. “It’s okay.”

Then his eyes zoom out from the tunnel vision and he takes in her entire face. The brunette hair framing her face like a halo, her pouty lips and rounded cupid’s bow, the two little dimples just barely poking through at the base of her cheeks, a sharp angled jaw to finish off her face. She’s beautiful. More than, if there is another word in the English dictionary to describe how taken aback he is by her.

“What, uh.” He can’t even fucking think straight. Then he looks down and sees her white blouse completely covered in coffee. Fuck. “Your shirt.”

She looks down and holds the material in her hand, wincing slightly. “Yeah. It’s just a little stain, no biggie.” And oh, okay, she’s joking. Thank God. He was not willing to get into a lawsuit with this girl over ruined blouses and burnt skin. He knows that if he did, he’d hand over all the money in his bank account, right into her pretty little hands.

_ Burnt skin. _

“Oh, fuck, are you hurt?” He didn’t even think about the temperature of the drink that’s currently soaking both his and her clothing. As well as the ground, and quite possibly their shoes. “Did it burn you?”

“No, not really, I don’t think,” she says with a shrug. “It’s just not the most comfortable, you know?”

“I really am so sorry.” And because his brain is already fried, he offers, “I live right next door, you could come over and I could give you some clothes to borrow.”

He almost slaps himself on the forehead.  _ Of course she isn’t going to come over, you idiot. You’ve just met her.  _ In fact, he doesn’t even know her name (but he wants to,  _ God,  _ does he want to know every single thing about her). 

She smiles at him, and he waits for her to politely turn him down (she seems like the type to be nice about everything), but then she says, “Sure.”  _ Wait, what?  _ “Why not?” 

He doesn’t know if he is hearing her right, but he doesn’t want to give her time to change her mind. So, he nods and leads her out the door and into the skate shop next door. He watches as she looks around, her eyes wide and taking in the place. She smiles when she spots a photo of his niece in skates that are much too big for her feet. He feels his chest swell with pride. 

“You live in a skate shop?” she questions, teasingly. 

He laughs softly. “No, but I live over top of one.” He opens the door in the back and reveals the set of stairs that lead up to his apartment. And then he realizes, with a stunning shock, that he is inviting a woman into his home without even knowing her name (wouldn’t be the first time, unfortunately). “I’m Scott,” he rushes out. “By the way.”

“Tessa,” she tells him with a smile.  _ Tessa.  _ He rolls the name around in his head and thinks about how perfect it is for her. Everything about her is perfect, though. 

As he unlocks the front door, he holds his breath. He thinks that every opinion she has means something. She looks around his apartment the same way that she looked around the skate shop, wonder twinkling in her eyes. He wants to look at the world the same way she does.

“I’ll go see what I have hiding in my closet,” he says before quickly walking down the hall to his bedroom. 

Once he finds a shirt from when he was younger, one of those free ones that Skate Canada gives out to their athletes whenever they make it to big events like Nationals, and a pair of Cara’s leggings that accidentally got mixed up when he was transporting laundry from his apartment to his parent’s house, he walks back into the living room where she is standing and looking at his wall of family photos.

“Here, I hope they fit,” he says to her, holding out the clothing.

She examines the shirt and pants and chuckles. “Do you just casually hoard women’s pants in your closet?”

“N–no,” he stutters out. “They’re my cousins.”

Her eyebrow raises and fuck, that probably didn’t sound any better. “Okay,” she says, nonetheless. “Is there a bathroom I could…”

“Right, yes.”  _ She’s not gonna change right in front of you, Jesus, Scott.  _ “It’s just down the hall,” he tells her, pointing in the direction of the washroom. 

She nods in appreciation and heads down the hallway, shutting the door after herself. He finally feels like he can breathe. That is, until she comes out wearing his t-shirt. Even though the thing most definitely doesn’t fit him anymore (he’s kept it for the sentiment, okay), it still swallows her up. It dries his mouth right up.

“You’re really into skating, huh?” she asks, fingers playing with the ends of the shirt. 

“Yeah, I guess.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You guess? Scott, you live above a skating shop. Which, I’m guessing, is yours?”

“Yes,” he confirms. “Okay, then, I  _ am  _ really into skating. No guesses.”

The laughs he pulls out of her fills the air delightfully. He’d gladly listen to that and only that the rest of his life. And he’d gladly spend the rest of his life trying to hear it, would put his life on the line if it meant it would make her laugh. “Well, thank you for the clothes, Scott.”

“It’s the least I could do.” He shrugs. “Are you sure your skin is okay?”

And then, because apparently she wants to kill him dead right there in his living room, she lifts the edge of the shirt up, settling it just under her breasts. She looks down and examines her skin, fingers running along the very prominent muscles rippling over her stomach. Fuck, she even has a belly button piercing. He swears it winks at him. “I think it’s okay,” she says, one finger poking just above the metal bar fastened in her skin. “Maybe a little red. What do you think?”

He coughs. “Uhm, yeah. A little pink. But, uh. If you think it’s okay, then…” He almost asks if he can feel it.  _ Just to make sure.  _ “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“It was just an accident.” She lowers the shirt  _ (thank God)  _ and shrugs her shoulders. “Happens to the best of us.”

They stare at each other and he swears the tension is palpable. It creates a fog around them, visible, overwhelming. He almost,  _ almost,  _ takes the four (or five, he’s not sure) steps forward to close the gap between them and kiss her till next Tuesday. But he doesn’t.

She moves first, shifting slightly on her feet and bringing her wrist up to glance at her watch. “Well, I have to get going.” He swears he’s not crazy, or relying on wishful thinking, but she sounds disappointed at the fact. “Thank you again for the clothes.”

Just before she leaves the apartment, he rushes after her. The fog clouding the windows clues him into the chill outside and how a short sleeved t-shirt isn’t going to do her any good. “Wait!” he calls after her. “Here.” He holds his hand out, one of his hoodies offered to her.

She looks at it and smiles softly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He doesn’t even think about the fact that it’s his favourite sweatshirt and he will probably never get it back. Not because he’ll miss it, but because he’ll miss her. “Goodbye, Tessa.”

“See you later,” she corrects, eyes shining and smile suggesting.

Scott Moir went into the coffee shop that day, didn’t even take a sip of his drink, and still became an addict.

❁

He collects all of her belongings into a cardboard box, like that’s the only amount of space she took up in his life. It’s not, is the thing. She took residence in every part of his life; the skate shop, his living room, the arena, his bedroom back at his parent’s house, every single organ in his body. He can’t confine her to a cardboard box, but he damn well tries to.

Every single one of her items is piled in the Canada Post proxided box. A tube of lipstick, the few stray socks he’s been compiling over the past few weeks, a DVD of her very first solo skate when she was six that she brought over and they laughed at together. There’s twelve bobby pins, four hair elastics, and a lone comb. He doesn’t know if she misses the toothbrush, but he throws it in for good measure. A keychain that says  _ Georgia  _ on it, in the shape of a peach, from when they took the road trip down to catch a few sunbeams in the middle of winter. 

The one thing he does keep is the scarf, the one that reminds him of innocence and still smells like her.

As he grabs the packing tape and starts to close the box, he thinks of carving out his heart and throwing it in there too. It’s not like he’ll ever own it again. It’s always been hers.

❁

The bell above the door to the skate shop rings, signalling a new customer. He pulls his glasses off and places them on the countertop before plastering on his customer service smile and stepping out from behind the till. He’s about to give the classic  _ welcome to Moir’s Skate Shop!  _ but then he sees exactly who it is standing at the entryway.

“Tessa,” he breaths out her name, shocked.

She smiles at him, just a soft pull of the corners of her lips, and blushes. “Hi, Scott.”

“How are you?” He hopes she is good.

“Good.”  _ Perfect _ . 

“How can I help you? Are you looking for a new pair of skates, or–”

“No, actually,” she cuts him off gently and holds her hands out. He sees, for the first time, a plastic bag with the Chapters logo on it. She’s bringing him a book? Probably on the subject of  _ Don’t Be a Fucking Creep and Spill Coffee On Strangers Only Then To Let Them Into Your House and Lend Them Clothes.  _ A long title, but to the point, he thinks. “I brought back your clothes.”

_ Oh.  _ “Oh.”

“They’re washed, of course. I hope that’s okay.” Is she… nervous? No way. He doesn’t think a woman as stunning as her could ever feel nerves. She holds out the bag to him and he takes it with a grateful smile. “Thank you, again.”

“I feel like you shouldn’t be thanking me,” he chuckles. “Were you able to get the stains out of your clothes?”

She nods. “Yeah, actually. It was a bit of a pain, but they came out eventually.” 

“I really am sorry,” he offers once again, hoping that she can hear the depth of apology in his voice. 

“It really is okay, Scott.” The way she says his name sounds like a hundred beginnings. “Besides, you handled it like a pro.”

“By bringing you into my house without even knowing your name?” he jokes, leaning into the unearthly nature of his choice. 

She laughs and shakes her head slightly. “It was a… bold choice.”

“You could say that again.”

“But it was sweet.” Her eyes hold a million meanings. He just stares at her, taking in everything that she is and everything he imagines her to be. The same tension from when they stood in the living room of his apartment is back and he wonders if it will ever go away. “So, uh,” she starts speaking, eyes glancing around the store. “If I wanted to, hypothetically, invest in a pair of skates, what would you recommend?”

He grins. “Right this way, my dear.”

She blushes under the pet name and he doesn’t know if he’s ever seen a prettier colour.

❁

The number sitting in his contact list weights his phone significantly. He could never bring himself to delete it, or block it, or anything that would prevent him from reaching out and talking to her. Even though he knows he never will. But the opportunity just being there is everything that he needs.

(Well… not everything. It’s something. It’s an opportunity that he shouldn’t have.)

For all he knows, though, she’s deleted his number. Blocked him. Taken every precaution to never hear from him again.

She hasn’t moved, though. He knows this because Cara tells him about seeing her around town, in the grocery store or at the bank. It’s how he knows where to send the box of her belongings. He could knock on her front door if he really wanted to. He could travel to her house and apologize with every ounce of strength he has left (which, honestly, isn’t very much).

He does, one night. His car is cold and his face is hot with embarrassment for being so desperate for her, when he was the one who broken her in the end. He was the one who tore them apart, leaving shattered pieces scattered around them, splintered beyond repair.

He doesn’t park in her driveway, but rather down the road like the fucking creep he is. His lungs contract with the shallow breaths he manages to take in and exhale. His hand grasps onto the door handle, about to pull on it to open the door, when he sees her.

She’s still as beautiful as the first (and last) time he saw her. Her hair still surrounds her like a halo and her cheeks still dimple when she smiles and her hands are still so tiny, shoved deep into her pockets. He wants to hold her.

He realizes, seconds later, that she’s walking home. Alone.

He starts his car and turns around, heading back to a house that feels nothing like home.

❁

Tessa tells him, three weeks after their first meeting, about how much she loves perfection.

“It’s not really  _ perfection,”  _ she clarifies. “I like having things in order.”

He’s not really sure what the difference is. “Order?” he asks, pressing her, hopefully not too hard. 

She has slowly started opening up to him whenever they manage to see each other (which is a lot). Getting to know all the multi-dimensions of her is the best part of his day. Other than the times that his nieces or nephews toddle into the store, so excited to be hanging out with their Uncle Scott. He discovers things about her that he would have never expected. It’s not good for his health or his heart that slowly is sliding out of its designated spot on the left side of his chest and into her unsuspecting palms.

“I just…” she pauses and looks down at her hands, fiddling with the cardboard cooling slip that’s wrapped around the coffee cup she’s been occasionally taking sips out of. “Do you ever wonder what your purpose is in life?”

“Not really,” he answers honestly. “I think it would scare me too much.”

She laughs softly, humourlessly, more so making a noise to fill the uncomfortable air. He wonders if he should direct the conversation down a separate path, but she begins to speak once again. “It is. Scary, I mean. I think I just keep filling my life with project after project and hope that something sticks, that maybe one of them is my purpose.”

He reaches out and hesitantly places his hand on the back of her own. “You don’t have to live your life for everyone else all of the time. It’s okay to be a little selfish.”

“Yeah.” She turns her hand over and laces her fingers through his own. His breathing stutters. “I guess you’re right.”

❁

If only she took his advice.

❁

They get lost in each other like they always do. She’s dropped by the shop just for a chat, and to get her skates sharpened, but she stays for hours and hours. No one comes in because of the warning of a snow storm that’s about to hit the town. But Tessa does. She doesn’t just come in, she stays, her warmth filling the small store until Scott’s so hot he has to take his sweater off.

Neither of them notices the ice building up outside until the door flies open.

“Oh my God!” Tessa gasps, hand launching to cover her mouth.

Scott rushes to close it, then flicks the lock to make sure that it stays shut. He catches sight of the storm brewing through the glass window. It’s a flurry of white, white, and more white. It’s a mess, worse than he’s seen in years. There’s no way anyone could go outside in it. Including Tessa.

He feels a hand touch his back, right between his shoulder blades, and run down his spine. “Hey.” He shivers at both her warm palm and how close her voice is to his ear. “It’s bad out there, huh?”

“Yeah,” he whispers. He doesn’t need to be any louder, she can hear him. “I’m not letting you leave.”

“Scott–”

“No.” He turns around and grabs her elbows gently. “You can sleep in my bed tonight.” Her eyes widen just slightly and her teeth gnaw at her bottom lip.  _ Fuck.  _ He knows exactly what that sounded like. “I mean. You can sleep in my bed while I sleep on my couch. Of course.”

Something sparkles in her eyes that he can’t quite place. But he wants to find out exactly what it means. “Okay. As long as I get to wear that Skate Canada shirt again.” 

God, he would  _ beg  _ her to wear that shirt again. He’d get on his knees and plead for her to wear anything of his. Maybe he could convince her to slip on the jersey that the Leafs gave him with his last name stitched across the back. If he asks nice enough, maybe she would wear that and only that. He’s not going to get his hopes up, though.

Hours later, after watching Tessa in his shirt (he didn’t even  _ try  _ to offer the jersey, he’s not sure if he could even handle it) slowly fall asleep beside him while they watched a movie, he finds himself alone on his couch. The room is cold and he can’t seem to find sleep no matter how hard he tries. 

Just as he flips onto his side again and tugs the comforter tighter around him, he glimpses Tessa pad down the hallway and into the kitchen. He groans and sits up. “Tessa?”

She turns around and looks scared until she sees it’s just him. “Hi.” Her voice is nothing more than a puff of breath. “Sorry, I just… do you have some water?”

“Of course,” he says, standing up and walking into the kitchen. As he is opening the fridge to pull out a water bottle, the white light filtering through the room and illuminating her pale skin, which makes her look like she is glowing, he notices that she doesn’t have any pants on. His hand grips at the fridge handle as he shoots out his other and offers her the water. “Here.”

Tessa giggles and takes it from him, uncapping the lid and taking a sip. She holds the bottle in her hand and ponders for a moment before saying, “Dance with me.”

“What?”

She caps the lid back on and places the bottle on the counter beside them. “Kitchens are made for dancing.”

“Kitchens are made for cooking.”

“Scott.”

“And eating.”

“Shut up.” She grabs his shoulder and one of his hands, pulling him into a perfect dance hold. Her back is straight, spine lengthening the line of her neck, and he places his palm just above her bum. 

He tries to keep a distance between them, but she manages to pull him in even closer until her head settles on his shoulder and their chests press together. The dance is the most intimate he has ever been with another person. And he’s had sex. Lots of sex. But this… this is exhilarating. He thinks he could stay here forever; in his kitchen, holding Tessa, their feet shuffling across the chilly tiles that are draped in the refrigerator light. 

Perhaps that’s what makes him feel so bold.

“Tessa.” He whispers her name like it’ll save him. From what, he’s not sure. Maybe the inevitableness of how hard he’s about to fall for her.

She pulls her head away from his neck and looks up at him, eyes wide, lips parted. “Yes?”

He licks his lips and she is so close he swears the tip of his tongue touches her nose. “We never were meant to be friends.”

Scott can feel her breath hitch where their chests are pressed together. “No?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

Then he kisses her. Soft, sweet, determined. Their tongues slip against each other and he thinks his heart grows wings and flies away. His stomach twists and turns inside of him. The bottom of his feet tingle. He’s never felt that before. Sure, he’s kissed pretty girls before. He’s felt his body change while his lips have been pressed against another. But his feet have never tingled. It’s like her touch reaches every single nerve ending in his body. 

It’s like every single part of him belongs to her.

❁

Tessa has a key to his apartment because that’s something that they do now; have access to everything that the other person has. Everything that the other person is.

Which is how she finds him, sat on his couch, laughing with his old skating partner.

“Hi,” she greets from the front door. 

He glances over the shoulder of his partner and finds her standing in the hallway, keys dangling in her grasp and grocery bags slung over her opposite wrist. “Tess!” he shouts excitedly, shooting up from the couch and walking over to her.

His first clue that something is wrong is when he pulls her in for a kiss and she turns her head, his lips landing on her cheek instead. He scrunches his eyebrows at her. 

“You must be Tessa,” his partner says behind them. She’s stood up from the couch and walked up to where they stand.

Tessa plasters on a smile that he can tell is fake the second she wears it. “Hi! So nice to meet you!”

They shake hands before Tessa announces that she has a migraine and walks down the hallways to his (their) bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Scott watches her go and hopes that his partner doesn’t catch on to the underlying unease he is feeling when she glances at him one last time.

She doesn’t, thankfully. Instead she drags him back to the couch and they continue to catch up on each other’s lives. He tells her about the shop, she tells him about her school. And then she offers him a job.

“Pardon?” He blinks at her.

She pats his knee. “Just… think about it. I don’t need to know right now.”

Scott nods and guides her to the door, says goodbye with a kiss on the cheek, and watches her go, leaving behind a million questions in her wake. He ventures down the hall and into the bedroom. All he wants to do is talk to Tessa.

But then he opens the door and sees her sitting up in bed, comforter pulled tightly around her waist, and eyes wide. He opens his mouth to say something, when she interrupts him. “Do you love me?”

And what a stupid fucking question. “Of course.”

“Tell me then.”

He takes a few steps closer. “T. What’s this all about?”

“Just tell me,” she snaps.

“I love you.” With his whole fucking heart. With every single ounce of his being. He loves her wholey, completely. 

She nods (and doesn’t say it back), then waves him over with her hand. When he gets to the bed she pulls him in and kisses him fiercely. Puts her all into it. 

He doesn’t realize she’s trying to search for something that doesn’t exist with her lips.

(Doubt. That’s what she’s looking for. Doubt. What she doesn’t know is he hasn’t doubted his love for her for even one second since the day they met.)

❁

He watches this documentary about astronauts. Space has always been something interesting to him, the grand expanse of unknown stars and planets. The contradiction of the moon and the sun stirs something inside of him. Light versus dark. Yellow versus grey. A ball of fire versus a small sphere of cold dust. It’s the mystery of it all that intrigues him the most. It makes him want to know more and more and more.

One of the astronauts talks about the confounding experience of realizing that they are looking at the whole world. At everything they’ve ever known. It’s spellbounding, leaves most of them feeling as if they’ve been paralyzed. They can’t grasp the profoundness of it all. Every single thing they’ve ever thought doesn’t matter when they look down and see the orb of life.

Scott thinks that’s exactly how he feels when he looks at Tessa.

“What are you doing?” she asks him, nose scrunched up. The window is rolled down and her hair, recently cut shorter so that it falls just below her shoulders, is caught in the wind filtering through the open hole. She’s gorgeous.

“Looking at you,” he answers simply.

She grabs his face and turns his chin so that he’s facing the road once again. “Well don’t!” He slams on the breaks when he sees the bright red light staring at them. The tires squeal loudly and he manages to shoot his arm out to protect Tessa. He hears her gasp and hold his hand tightly.

“Fuck,” he hisses when the car finally stops. He looks over and sees Tessa’s face draped in a red glow. “Are you okay?”

Her mouth is parted, still holding the gasp in her throat, and she holds his hand even tighter. “Yeah.” And then she giggles. “You’re so fucking lucky that we’re in Ilderton and it’s two in the morning.”

He thinks he’s lucky for many more reasons that just that. Number one being the woman willingly sat beside him with her fingers laced through his own.

❁

“So are you going to take the job?” she asks, casually, the next morning, over a bowl of Cheerios.

He almost chokes. “What?”

“The job. That your partner offered to you.” She speaks so hollowly, flatly, that it sends the hair on his arms straight up.

“You… she’s my ex-partner.”

“Does it matter?”

He doesn’t understand why she sounds like she’s about to bite his head off. “Why are you so mad about it? Tess, it’s not like I’m going to take the job.”

“Maybe you should!” They both freeze at the shout. She clearly didn’t mean to snap so loudly and he clearly wasn’t expecting it.

He carefully pulls his spoon from the bowl of Cheerios quickly sopping up the milk and turning soggying, placing the metal on the table. “What’s this about, Tess?” 

“You two get along well,” she mumbles. “Better than well.”

_ Wait a second.  _ “Are you… jealous?”

“No,” she snaps.

It’d be cute if she weren’t second guessing every word he’s ever uttered to her. “Tessa.” And he uses her full name so she knows how serious he is. “I love you.”

“What makes you happy, Scott?” Maybe she says his name for the same effect. 

He stands up and shuffles around the table, grabs her face in both of his hands and turns so that she is looking him directly in the eyes. “You. Goddammit,  _ you  _ make me happy.”

“And skating.”

“Fuck skating!” Doesn’t she see that he can live without skating? He can’t live without her. He doesn’t even want to try. “You make me happy. Nothing is going to change that.”

She turns her chin, pulling it from his grip, then picks up her bowl and walks away. He watches as she drains the milk and soggy cereal into the sink, flicking on the garburator. The last thing she says to him before walking down the hallway and slamming the bathroom door shut is, “You should take the job.”

She chooses the bathroom because it’s the one with a lock.

❁

Of course his mom pulls out the photo album.

“And this is him and his tee ball team,” Alma says, pointing at the little boy in the picture who he used to be. 

Tessa coos and pulls the book closer so she can see better. “Oh, he was adorable.” Her finger crinkles the cellophane as she runs the tip over the little boy he used to be, captured on photo paper that his mom purchased at Walmart.

“Was?” he asks, crooking an eyebrow.

She giggles and leans over to kiss his cheek. “You still are.” Her hand flips the pages gently, afraid to rip it or ruin the photos, and he watches her take in each and every still moment of time. He watches her eyes soften and lighten, with joy and excitement and laughter. 

“God those were awful,” he huffs when she pauses on a picture of him, around aged five, with a pair of big rounded glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” she mumbles.

There’s a lot that she doesn’t know about him, he figures. But there is something about her. It’s in the way she burned a can of chicken noodle soup the one time he got sick and apologized for the rest of the week because they just couldn’t get the smell out of his apartment. It’s in the way she’ll pop into the shop on her lunch break (her own store is just down the road, recently opened, and filled with merchandise completely different from his own) and make sure that he takes a break. It’s in the way she knows exactly what he is thinking just by looking at him.

Which is exactly why, wrapped up in each other and his twin-sized childhood bed, he tells her about his past, because she is his future.

❁

He comes home to find two suitcases at the front door.

“Tessa?!” he shouts her name, hurried and frantic, his voice cracking and heart sunk.  _ No, no, no.  _ His feet carry him quickly down the hallway, popping his head into every single room, each time his expectations lowering and lowering. He finally finds her in the bathroom, a duffle bag opened and her piling bottles of shampoo and conditioner inside. “Tessa.”

She whips her head around and has the audacity to look scared. Like he isn’t scared shitless. “Scott.”

“What–what are you doing?” He doesn’t know whether he wants to know the answer or not.

“I…” She puts the duffle bag on the floor beside her after zipping it up. “I have to go.”

_ Go were?!  _ Why would she need to be anywhere that he is not. “But… I don’t understand.”

She scoffs and picks up the bag, then brushes past his shoulder as she walks out the door. He follows her dutifully. It doesn’t matter where she goes, he will always be right there with her. He’s not sure if he could survive being anywhere else. When they get to the front door, she starts slipping on her shoes.

“Tess, talk to me!” he pleads. He wants to grab her and never let go, but he knows better. He wouldn’t dare touch her when he knows she wouldn’t want it. “You can’t just leave me here clueless.”

“You know what this is about, Scott,” she says seriously. The other shoe is pulled on. “I can’t talk to you right now.”

“Is this because of the job?!” he asks incredulously. “Tessa, you know that I don’t want it!”

“That’s exactly the problem.”

He wants to rip his hair out. “What?! What do you want?! What is the problem?!”

“I know that I will hold you back and I can’t!” She’s crying now, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. All he wants to do is hold her and wipe the moisture away. He wants to fix her, even if he’s the one breaking her in the process. “I can’t do that. You won’t let yourself be happy, so I’m doing it for you.”

“You walking out that door is a surefire way to ensure that I won’t be happy.” He’s turned desperate, is about to get on his hands and knees for her. “Fuck, Tessa,  _ please.”  _

“Just let me go, Scott.” He isn’t physically holding on. Maybe she too can see the lines of string forever tying them together. They aren’t so easy to snip. “It’s for the best.”

And because he will always want what’s best for her, even if it means destroying himself, he says, softer than he has ever spoken before, “Okay.”

And then he watches as the masterpiece they once were becomes scattered, ripped to pieces, on the floor around them. Correction: around him. There is no them anymore.

❁

She once told him, before they became two people who actually kiss each other rather than suppress the urge to do so, that she doesn’t like to sing. Well, she likes to sing, just not in front of anyone else. Her sister, sometimes. Her closest friends when she is drunk (and that one time when she tried weed and vowed to never do so again). 

But that isn’t the case right now.

She is sat beside him in the passenger seat. There are Autumn leaves falling around them, yellow and orange and red, all the hues of the season that is his absolute favourite. They decided to go on a road trip because she’s never been up north and it’s a travesty that she considers herself a native of Ontario when she’s never even seen The Sault. They decided to go on a road trip because they are the definitions of workaholics and needed to force each other to take a break. They decided to go on a road trip to find sanctuary in silent forests.

They decided to go on a road trip and Tessa is singing. Beside him.

The song that’s filtering through the stereo is some eighties pop ballad that he is pretty sure was sung by a one hit wonder. But she is singing, nonetheless. Her voice is quiet but sure. It’s gentle yet strong. It’s so distinctly Tessa that he wants to pocket it and pull it out whenever he misses her (which is practically every minute that she isn’t within reach).

It’s a sign of trust and he isn’t sure what to do with it other than tuck it in the place between his ribs and his heart. 

They decided to go on a road trip and the leaves falling around them feel like pieces falling into place.

❁

He isn’t the greatest at having the last word.

“Hello,” she answers, softly. He knows she knows that it’s him calling. He knows the hesitance in her voice. He knows the amount of times she must have debated whether or not to answer (seventeen; the same amount that he pushed the green button next to her name). 

His heart skips a beat and he blurts out, “I loved you.” He doesn’t focus on the past tense.

She does. “You  _ loved  _ me?”

“As if you didn’t know that,” he says with a scoff stuck in his throat. “You knew exactly what you were doing when you walked out that door and left me.”

She sighs, long and winded. She sounds exhausted. “I’m sorry, Scott.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“Scott.” She snaps his name in a way that causes him to recoil, like her hand could reach through the phone and slap him across the face. “Why are you being like this?”

He pauses, rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, then asks, “Can I be honest?”

“Are you sure you’re going to be honest and not cruel?”

How dare she. “I’m happy you’re gone.” He doesn’t know why he lies. Maybe it’s because he wants her to feel the same pain that he does. He wants the chance to twist the knife. “So thanks for the favour.”

She doesn’t say anything for a while. He can hear the sharp inhales and rough exhales. He knows she must be crying. The thought is confirmed when she says in a cracked voice, “I’m glad you are happy.”

_ NO!  _ he wants to yell.  _ I’m not happy! That’s the point!  _

She wasn’t supposed to leave. She wasn’t supposed to believe that her leaving is what was best for him. She wasn’t supposed to ever give up on them. She wasn’t supposed to be happy for him.

She was supposed to change her mind. She was supposed to come back to him.

He hangs up the phone without another word.

❁

The moment that he knows that he’s in love with her is when she dresses in plaid for him. She hates plaid. But he convinces her with a pout and a genuine wonder if she would do it for him.  _ I think plaid is hot,  _ he told her. It was mostly  _ (mostly)  _ a joke.

That same night she walks out of his closet with one of his plaid shirts draped over her body. And nothing else.

“Holy fuck, Tess,” he breathes out from his spot on the bed. He quickly places the magazine he was reading down onto the nightstand and puts his glasses on top. “Are you looking to be charged with murder?”

She giggles and slowly walks towards him. He can’t help but watch the way she daintily points her toes, always so fucking poised and perfect. He’s so enamoured. “Do you like it?”

“I love it.”  _ I love you.  _ “Come here.”

For every step that she takes forward his heart skips another beat. Eventually, she shuffles onto the bed and straddles his waist easily. He kisses her, deep and dark, a million promises laced into the saliva that they swap with their tongues pushing in and out of each other’s mouths. He puts his all into it.

That night, with his fingers buried deep inside of her, thumbing at her clit and mouthing at her neck, she gasps, “Make me your own.”

And so he does. He sheaths himself inside of her, both of their moans and groans creating a symphony worthy of the greatest replaying over and over again. He thrusts and she grinds and they synchronize everything about themselves. In this moment, he gets lost in her. He lets himself become completely consumed by her entire being. He drowns with no desire of being saved.

She asked him to make her his own, but he thinks that she claims him instead. Or perhaps they mutually become each others. They belong to the other, completely and without reservations. 

❁

If only belonging to each other was enough. 

He wonders how much his battered heart is worth on resale.

❁

When he was in school, his teachers always admired his ability to remember things. They tested him for photographic memory, wondered if he had abilities that excelled the other children. He loved it. He enjoyed not having to study so hard for tests, at knowing the answer before everyone else, even if he never responded with it. He liked being able to grasp the concepts quickly because they simply piled one on top of the other. He swelled with pride when he could do those memory tests and know exactly what every card on the table was once it was flipped over.

He still has an amazing memory.

Almost every single moment of his life is coded in his brain in the form of colours. He was told that it’s one of the ways that people with photographic memory can do so. They place a colour, or multiple shades of colours, to different scenes in order to memorize them better. He’s not sure if it’s true, but it makes sense, seeing as it’s true to him.

Almost every single moment of his life is coded in his brain in the form of colours. His mom is a warm mix of different shades of yellow and orange, wrapping him in comfort. His brothers are harsh clashes of red and blue, hot and cold, the passion and the ice that they show each other (of course the red outweighs the blue). His nieces and nephews are pastels, soft and gentle and youthful.

And then there is Tessa.

She used to be a kaleidoscope of every colour in the rainbow. Bold and jarring, demanding his attention. Broad and expansive, a space to swallow you up and get lost in. Stunning and breathtaking, a masterpiece on its own.

That’s what she used to be. Now, she’s just grey.

He used to thank his memory. He used to bask in the gift like it was some type of superpower. Now, whenever he closes his eyes and sees her, he curses the ability to remember every single entity of her being.

❁

“Maybe you should go to therapy?” his brother suggests, pulling him out of bed for the fifth day in a row.

He scoffs. “Tessa Virtue Anonymous?”

She always was his addiction.

“Scott–”

“I’m okay!” he defends. And sure, he’s okay. He is totally okay. But he absolutely is not fine. Not at all.

❁

There’s a part of himself that mourns the man he used to be. He wants to be himself again. The pain and the suffering, it needs to be shoved to the side. He has things to do. He has a life to live (even if most days it doesn’t seem worth living). He wants to find out who Scott Moir used to be and force himself into that mould. 

She changed him so much though, in the before, the during, and the after, that he isn’t sure if that Scott Moir even exists anymore.

He forgets about longing for his past self long enough to forget why he needed to.

❁

It’s a bad day.

It’s a bad day and he pulls her scarf from his closet and wraps it around himself. It’s losing the scent of her. 

It’s a bad day and he cries himself exhausted on his couch.

It’s a bad day and it’s been five months since he saw her last.

It’s a bad day and he’s been drinking coffee since she left, so why not one more time?

He heads over to the cafe, slow as a snail, and orders the strongest thing on their menu (at least it’s not alcohol, that phase passed weeks ago). The cup is warm in his hands and he debates holding his arm out and spilling the scalding liquid on his skin only so he can feel something. He decides against it, but that doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything because he turns around and someone spills it on him for him.

“Fuck!” he hisses. It’s hot. And it’s everywhere. Including on her scarf that is still wrapped around his neck. And it’s a bad day, so of course he starts crying. “Dammit,” he croaks out, feeling defeated.

A hand reaches up and touches his cheek, just the lightest brush of fingertips.  _ What?  _ “Scott.” 

His whole body shudders.

“Tess.” He looks up and sees those damn eyes. He thought she moved away. He thought she flew across the country after the first two months because any amount of space between them wouldn’t be enough unless it held a whole nation of people. But here she is, in front of him. The first thing he notices is that she’s cut her hair. “You–”

“Are you…” She runs her fingers down his chest, down  _ her  _ scarf, and his breath hitches. “This is my scarf.”

His arms flail as he quickly unravels the piece of fabric from his neck, now soaked with coffee, and offers it out to her. She reaches forward carefully and takes it from him. “I’m sorry,” he hands her the apology, along with the scarf.

She shakes her head. “No need to apologize.”

They stand there awkwardly, no words spoken between each other. He doesn’t even know what he should say.  _ I’m sorry  _ again?  _ Please come back to me. I feel dead without you. Nothing makes me happy in life.  _

“You, uhm. You didn’t take the job,” she says carefully, knowing the sensitivity of the topic. “Why?”

“I told you, T.” He doesn’t know if the privilege of using her nickname belongs to him anymore. “There was no way.”

She presses her lips together tightly, the way she used to do when she would stumble over her thoughts. It never really was directed at him, though. Not until now. “Right.” She looks everywhere but at him. “How was Alma’s birthday? It was last week, correct?”

He blinks at her. “You remember that?”

Then she quickly answers, with a bat of her eyelashes and the world moving around him in the slowest slow motion, “Yes. I remember everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to my beautiful beta. forever thankful for you.


End file.
